


Singed

by OneLastMiracle (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:25:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/OneLastMiracle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was a genius, absolutely brilliant- and there was no denying that. But there were somethings that he just couldn’t grasp, that he completely didn’t understand, and more often than not, it was simple or obvious (such as why a woman would grieve her stillborn child, or what kept the Earth in orbit.). But this had been one fact that Sherlock should have known, or at least taken into consideration; what sane person wouldn’t? And John wasn’t about to be blamed for something that was instinctual and human, never mind right.</p>
<p>A discussion of the trust (or lack there of) between the Baker Street Boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Singed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Qwertyprophecy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Qwertyprophecy).



> This was based off of a prompt a friend gave me, so Milena should take at least some credit for this idea:  
> You know what would be amazing? A discussion of the way Sherlock never tells John his plans, even when they rely on John’s actions. ‘Cause John has the patience of a saint, but what if once he didn’t? (Probably incited by something extreme happening on a case and John got pissed off?)
> 
> So read, and enjoy and comment if you liked it, comment if you didn't.

 

The door to the flat of 221B Baker Street was thrown open haphazardly by a disgruntled Sherlock, who stormed up the stairs louder than John, who followed behind, thought possible. They’d not yet spoken a word to one another since they’d gotten the cab, leaving a strained silence to dangle between them.

John might have guessed at what annoyed his flatmate so grandly, if he hadn’t been nearly as cross; Sherlock Holmes was a genius, absolutely brilliant- and there was no denying that. But there were somethings that he just couldn’t grasp, that he completely didn’t understand, and more often than not, it was simple or obvious (such as why a woman would grieve her stillborn child, or what kept the Earth in orbit.). But this had been one fact that Sherlock should have known, or at least taken into consideration; what sane person _wouldn’t_? And John wasn’t about to be blamed for something that was instinctual and human, never mind _right_.

But the doctor kept his thoughts to himself, silently brewing in his anger, and settled into the familiar habit of making a cup of tea, and ignoring an irate Sherlock. As he set the kettle, John caught mutterings, something along the lines of “-stupid and irrational fear. We had the suspect in our grasp and then he just _had_ to-” as Sherlock strode about. He could blame the entire thing on John; John was used to it by now, being blamed for absurd things. But this time, John was right, and _Sherlock_ had been the one out of his mind.

He poured in the brew, cupping the mug between his hands to warm them from the January chill and turned to take harbour in the main room- only to be halted by a 6’0” wall of Sherlock in his path. By some miracle, John managed to maintain the tea in his mug in his hand. “Christ! What the hell are you doing?!” He spat, taking a step back. Sherlock glared down at him. Except it wasn’t the kind of glare just anybody could give; no, this was the kind of glare only Sherlock doled out, one where you could feel his eyes pick you apart and scrutinise your every move, every word, every _thought_. As if every bit of you repelled him. Most people cringed upon facing it. John glared back.

“Something on your mind, Sherlock?” John asked, leaving the caustic tone light to initiate. No reason to be nasty yet. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed further.

“Always. Why did you not follow the plan, as I expressly directed? It cost us our suspect and substantial evidence in the Taman Shud case.” Sherlock’s voice was harsh as if he were questioning a criminal across an interrogation table. John strengthened his resolve.

“Oh, so now it’s _my_ fault that he got away?”

“Yes. Without your hesitance and resulting hindrance, I would have successfully apprehended the suspect and we would have had him in for questioning and closed the case. I thought the entire point of the military was to _follow_ orders, not _disregard_ them as you see fit.”

John’s jaw tightened, and his fingers flexed around the mug as he realised what his flatmate was implying. Sherlock’s eyes flicked down, following the movement of John’s tells. He didn’t care.

“In the military, we follow orders _to the best of our abilities_ and recognise when an order is inadvisable or _impossible_. I will not follow orders to my own _suicide_ , Sherlock.” John’s voice was strict and harsh. He watched Sherlock’s lip curl with the word suicide, as if offended John would even suggest he would ever allow for that.

Sherlock stepped forward, crowding John’s space again- and forcing himself to crane down demeaningly to make eye contact. “That was hardly suicide, John. Do at least try to be rational when making a point in your favour.” Condescension laced his voice.

John nearly laughed. “Are you telling me that jumping over an actual pit of fireisn’t suicidal?” Technically, it was a trench of petrol that the suspect had dropped a match into, but from his vantage point, it had seemed like a sea of fire. Sherlock had jumped across easily, those stupidly long legs of his, but John hadn’t been so sure of his own chances. And he prefered to keep his chestnuts not roasted on an open fire, thank you very much.

“I made it and didn’t even singe my coat.” Sherlock scoffed.

At that, John actually _did_ laugh. “You _literally_ jumped through fire and flames and wanted me to _follow_?! That’s mad! Why would you think I ever _would_ have done?!” He was incredulous that Sherlock thought that logical.

The detective frowned, unsure why John was laughing. “Well... You always have done before. I thought this would be no different.”

It seemed the anger had dissipated from both of them, leaving Sherlock confused, and John wishing he had a sane friend. “But you seem to be missing the point: this is literal  _fire_ , as in catch on fire, burn and die. I’m surprised even _you_ jumped over!”

Sherlock’s brow was furrowed deeply in confusion. “I don’t understand. This is the same risk as misjudging a jump and falling stories, as getting shot at, as anything else we’ve done. Why did you follow me all those times then?”

If it weren’t for the genuine confusion in his voice, John would have thought the other man was kidding. Why _wouldn’t_ he? If Sherlock led, John would follow. There really was no answer as to why; he just _did_. So John shrugged. “I don’t know. I trust you.”

Sherlock was silent a moment. He looked to be puzzling it over, turning something around in his head as if it were a foreign concept to him. “You trust me?” He repeated, sounding disbelieving.

John nodded. “Yes. With my life. As if there hasn’t been enough proof already.” He affirmed, and Sherlock’s eyebrow went up.

“Why?”

Oh. Why? Well.

John thought of a reason as to why he trusted this madman who jumped through fire named Sherlock Holmes (a ridiculous name for a ridiculous man). And he thought. And he racked his brain for any reason. And came up with nothing.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just do.”

Sherlock sighed, swatting away his non-answer with a lazy hand. “Yes, fine, but _why_?” He asked as if it were the most important question in the world. “ _Why_ do you trust me?”

John frowned now. How could he know? “I don’t _know_. You just- you seem like the kind of person to follow. You’re irrational and hasty and crude, but you know what you’re doing.”

“You trust me because I’m irrational?” He repeated. “That makes no sense.”

He sighed again, setting his mug onto the counter. “Yes. I also trust you because I _know_ you and you’re my friend. Which, often mistakenly, leads me to believe you have my interest in mind also. So I find it easy to believe that you make adjustments for me and are mindful. Which is why it worries me when you jump through a sodding wall of fire and only look back when you notice I’m not beside you.”

Sherlock shifted a bit, uncomfortable, probably because he’d been called out on his inattention. “I suppose that makes sense. Although didn’t it occur to you that I had already accounted for your route the same as mine, and you would cross safely? If you had continued running, the accumulated cushion of air from your wind resistance would have created a safe enough barrier between you and the flames, provided your speed didn’t drop below ten kilometres per hour, which I assumed you had kept pace.” He explained easily, then thought for a moment. “And let it be said that I _did_ come back for you once I noticed your absence at my side, never mind the escaping -escaped- suspect.”

“How did you even have time to-” John shook his head, picking up his tea and taking a sip. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

Sherlock smirked a bit, taking John’s self-answered question as no question to his skills. “Hopefully, from now on, you’ll trust my instincts and follow my actions as I intend for you to do them.”

John raised his eyebrow. “How about you take the time to _explain_ your plans instead of you running off ahead and leaving me to figure out how you did it? That way, we wouldn’t have miscommunications and we’d both leave with our eyebrows not burned off.”

Sherlock made a noise that sounded like he was annoyed endlessly by the limits of normal people, but eventually he agreed. “Fine. And I’ll attempt to avoid any more ‘pits of fire’ as you so aptly named them.”

“Good. Because both of us would look ridiculous sans eyebrows.” John muttered as he moved around Sherlock and finally took his place in his chair.

A low chuckled followed him as Sherlock strode to window and picked up his violin. Off one topic and onto another, already.

“Thinking of another plan for how to get another go at that Shud fellow?”

John could practically _hear_ the grin in Sherlock’s reply as he drew his bow across the strings loudly. “Already have one.”

 


End file.
